World of Chaos
by avevale
Summary: How can the darkness feel so wrong? [Booth centered, NJC Oct.]


**Author's Note: **Finally another piece written and done. I'm curious what you guys will think. Please let me know by writing a review!

**NJC**:This is partly written for the NJC. It's not really inspired on the lyrics of the song, more on the vibe I was getting from it. I was already thinking about writing a fic like this and the song really empowered my inspiration. Oh, and my favourite image in the video is the one with the AllStars shoes. You can see a girl standing on her toes next to a boy who is standing straight. They both wear Converse shoes. I just think it's romantic.

**You can listen to the song Eden by Hooverphonic while reading this story.  
**

* * *

The cries, full of sorrow - attended by flashes of blood, mud and plumes of smoke - are haunting his dreams. They have been since he got here. It's like he is in the field again, surrounded by other soldiers, half of them already dead. His clothes - drenched with the smell of death – are tightly wrapped around his body, causing him to have trouble breathing. Sweat is travelling down his face in little streams. And every time - in every dream - a certain bullet is racing towards him, ready to release him from this world of chaos, he wakes up, bathed in sweat. And as soon as his pupils adjust to the darkness, Booth realises his nightmare isn't over yet.

It has been exactly 57 days since he came here. He has already killed more than seven people, not to mention the ones who just had been hurt. He despises himself for what he has done so far, but there is no possible way for him to go back. The only thing he can do, the only thing he is capable of, is completing his task. That's what he owes his country, and himself. At least, that's what he tells himself every evening, before closing his eyes.

* * *

Booth propped himself up and climbed out of the metal bunk bed, careful not to wake his fellow soldiers. He quickly pulled on a shirt and some trousers, and made his way out of the cabin. You could tell he wasn't the only one who had rough nights, seeing the faces of the other soldiers. Some of them just had a look of panic, or concern. Others mortal fear. Outside, he walked towards the temporary lavatory. The little den was filthy. Little insects were swarming around the place, not to mention the smell, merged with the air. The washbasin, hanging very loosely to the thin wall, was covered in sand and dust. He splashed water on his face, trying to wash away all his fear and doubt of the night. Above the sink there was a dusty mirror, with several tears in it. Looking into it always gave him the chills. He didn't look like himself anymore; this was more like a ghost of what had been Seeley Booth once. The skin under his eyes was swollen and grey; his eyes were a shade of pink. His cheeks didn't have a healthy blush, but they were grazed and grimy. He looked as dead as he felt inside.

The past five days there hadn't been any attacks on the camp. It had been relatively quiet, not counting the loud commands from the lieutenants or the gunshots from the practices. The past hundred hours Booth hadn't touched one single gun, but still his finger ached from pulling the trigger, and only thinking about it made him cringe. Sometimes he wondered what had brought him here.

The sun wasn't up yet, so Booth decided to go for a walk. After two months he knew this place by heart. The camp was settled upon an open field, surrounded by a couple of dead trees. There was almost no animal life, except for some reptiles and insects. The air was always thick – a combination of moistness and warmth. The place had a strange smell, almost like gasoline, which often made him feel sick.

His muscles were tense and his gaze was always observing his surroundings. Booth knew he could never lose his focus, that could cost him not only his life but also his fellow soldiers lives'. Every flash of light and every movement he noticed. Only a few others were outside, mainly to supervise the camp or to give orders, but no one seemed to notice him. He liked it that way, being invisible. After all, that's what he was trained for.

As he walked further away from the camp, the sun began to set. It concerned him how fast – and yet so slow – the days were passing. Images of his past slowly began to fade away and new memories began to form. Bad memories. The same images as the nightmares he'd been having; again haunting his mind.

Sure, Booth had saved lots of people to begin with. At least, that's what other soldiers told him. But he knew they were just trying to make him feel better. Every soldier, every soul among them, knew it was wrong to kill another human being. It just wasn't right. Some of them had something or someone to hold on to, a nice thought to make all the bad ones go away. They thought about their wives or children, or another loved one. It was soothing to know someone was waiting for you at home, thinking of you, praying you'd be safe. Booth didn't have that. All he was seeking for now, was justice.

In the meantime he'd begun to walk faster and his breathing had fastened. His gaze wandered across the field stretched ahead of him. Nothing. Just lots of sand with a tuft of grass here and there. Escaping wasn't an option, it never had been for Booth. There was no crossroad, no choice for him to have. A little shiver ran down his spine. No, he wasn't cold. It was a little tingle of anxiety. He could feel there wasn't much time before duty would call again. Maybe it was his gut, maybe there was something hanging in the air, he didn't know. What he did know, was that it didn't feel right.

So he turned backwards, back to the camp. Back to his own nightmare.

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End file.
